“And if I refuse?”

Her smile sharpened. “Then you refuse your husband. You refuse this family. You’ll learn very quickly how lonely that can be.”

I let the silence stretch until Ethan shifted uncomfortably. Then I picked up the pen.

Lydia exhaled in triumph. Ethan relaxed. The notary prepared his stamp.

I signed a single line.

Not the transfer.

The acknowledgment of receipt.

Then I slid the folder back and said quietly, “Now it’s my turn.”

Lydia blinked. “What did you say?”

I stood, tightening the sash of my robe. “I said it’s my turn.”

Ethan grabbed the folder, flipping through it. “You didn’t sign the transfer.”

“No,” I said. “I signed proof that these documents were presented under pressure, in the presence of a notary you selected, less than twelve hours after our ceremony.”

The notary turned pale. Lydia remained still. People like her confuse silence with weakness because they have never watched a trap close.

“You ungrateful little nobody,” she hissed. “Do you think one clever sentence changes anything?”

“No,” I said. “But evidence helps.”

Ethan laughed harshly. “Evidence of what?”

I picked up my phone and tapped once. His laughter died as his own voice filled the room from the recorder hidden in the table lamp I had switched on earlier.

You’re not built for pressure. Let me take over.

Then Lydia: Ethan will manage what little you have.

And finally:

You’ll find out very quickly how lonely that can be.

Silence settled, broken only by the hiss of the coffee machine.

Lydia recovered first. “Illegal.”

“Actually,” I said, “not in this state when one party consents. I do.”

Her eyes flicked to Ethan, and for a moment, fear surfaced beneath her polish. She had done this before—coercion disguised as propriety, theft masked as family obligation.

Ethan threw the folder down. “What do you want, Elena?”

There it was. Not confusion. Not outrage. Just negotiation—the instinct of someone who knows he’s caught.